


Everybody Needs a Friend Sometimes (the Have a Banana remix)

by ariadnes_string



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:57:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ariadnes_string/pseuds/ariadnes_string
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone at MJN helps out when Martin takes ill.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everybody Needs a Friend Sometimes (the Have a Banana remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lothiriel84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Everybody Needs A Friend Sometimes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323445) by [Lothiriel84](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lothiriel84/pseuds/Lothiriel84). 



> Lothiriel84, thank you for offering your awesome fics for remixing, and for giving me a chance to play in the Cabin Pressure playground!
> 
> There are references in various episodes here, but no spoilers.

“Here you go, Skip,” said Arthur, holding out a mug.

“Ugh. That’s not coffee. What is it?”

“Tea, Skip.” Arthur was at his most sincere. “Tea’s better when you’re ill. I’ve put in some honey, too. And lemon.”

“Ah. Well, that’s where you’re mistaken. I’m not ill. Just some mild allergies, that’s all.”

“Right. So that explains why your nose is so red.”

“Yes,” said Martin, blowing said orifice loudly.

“And why your voice sounds like someone’s climbed down your throat and tied your vocal cords in knots.”

“Yes.” Martin swallowed. The image, though accurate, made everything hurt more. 

“And why you’re wearing that wooly jumper under your jacket.”

“Something’s wrong with the heat today, I’m surprised you can’t—Oi! Get away from me. What’re you doing?”

“Sorry, Skip—that’s just what Mum does when she’s checking to see if I have a temperature.” 

“Well, I don’t—have a temperature, that is. So there’s certainly no need for you to kiss me on the forehead.”

Arthur, being Arthur, probably apologized again at that point. Martin didn’t hear him. The effort of conversation had set him coughing. They were deep, painful coughs, and Martin felt like he was squeezing each one past a thick layer of wet cotton wool in his chest. 

By the time he’d gotten them under control, Douglas and Carolyn had joined Arthur in the flight deck and were regarding him quizzically.

“Captain Phlegm rides again, I see,” said Douglas.

“Is that what it was? From the galley, it sounded like someone was trying to strangle a squirrel,” said Carolyn.

“Very funny,” said Martin. Or at least he tried to say it. All that actually came out of his mouth were some muffled vowel sounds.

“Is he all right?” asked Carolyn.

“I doubt it,” said Douglas. “He sounds quite a bit more congested than yesterday, and I don’t like his colour.”

“I’m right here,” said Martin, waving at them to make his point. “And I’m fine, thanks, since you asked. Just allergies.”

He was sure the words came out clearly this time. But Douglas and Carolyn continued to ignore him.

“Should he be flying?” said Carolyn.

“Probably not. But we take off in three minutes, so there’s not much to do about it now. Don’t worry; I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Martin attempted to register his indignation at the idea of his needing kept an eye on, but the effort only set him coughing again.

“Yes, do,” said Carolyn. There was a note in her voice that might’ve been concern. Martin decided it was more likely disapproval.

He startled at the weight of Douglas’s hand descending on the back of his neck, between the brim of his hat and his uniform collar. 

“Hmm,” said Douglas. Martin squirmed, but Douglas didn’t release him. Martin knew what he was doing. At least it was better than Arthur’s lips. “I have some Paracetamol in my kit; that might get you through the flight. But you’ll need to ring your GP when we land.”

*

Douglas was happily dreaming of rally races and the start of the London Marathon when his phone buzzed.

“No, Carolyn, absolutely not,” he said when he saw her name come up on the screen.

“But you don’t even know what I’m going to ask.”

“It’s something involving my day off. I know, because you’ve called me on my day off. But it’s my day off, at least until nine o’clock. Mine. So no, whatever it is, absolutely not.”

“Douglas,” he could hear Carolyn inflating herself to maximum portentousness, “It’s Martin.”

Douglas groaned. “What’s he done now? Colour-coded the manuals again? Turned us in for serving those ham pies past their sell-by date?”

“No.” She deflated with a gusty sigh that sounded remarkably like worry. “I just got off the phone with him, and he didn’t sound at all well. I want you to go round and check in on him.”

“What? He’s a grown man, Carolyn. If he’s ill he can take himself to his doctor like anyone else. I told him he should yesterday.” Douglas punched his pillow into a more welcoming shape. 

“Well, he hasn’t. And now I am concerned," Carolyn informed him in regal tones. 

“You’re concerned that if he’s laid up too long you’ll have to hire a pilot you actually need to pay.” Douglas knew he sounded mean-spirited, but it really was quite early in the morning. “But that’s not my problem. Besides, I’m booked solid today; I don’t have time to go slumming down to Chez Crieff.” 

He had no plans other than sleeping in, as it happened, but he wasn’t going to let Carolyn know that.

She sighed again, this one a more theatrical effort. “I understand. I thought you might be too busy. Herc thought otherwise, of course. Said it was against the old Air England code, or something, not to help a friend in need. He offered to go himself, even though he’s on a layover in Birmingham at the moment; what’s a three-hour drive, he said, when it’s a fellow pilot? I’ll just call him now, shall I?”

“All right, all right, you’ve made your point.” Douglas was out of bed, rummaging in the closet for clean clothes. “I’ll check on him, though I’m sure it’s nothing.”

A seed of worry bloomed in his stomach as he got dressed, however; it was unlike Carolyn to lay it on so thick unless she was truly anxious.

*

“Oh, thank goodness,” said the weedy young man who opened the door to Martin’s shared house.

Douglas was used to being addressed with relief and gratitude, but in most cases he knew what he was being thanked for. “Pardon?” he said.

“You’ve come about him upstairs, haven’t you? And not before time, either; that cough of his is keeping _me_ up nights.” The youth shook his head like someone’s disapproving grandfather, not the penniless student he probably was. “I knew he couldn’t be as friendless as he seemed.”

Douglas manfully resisted the urge to yank the boy’s goatee until he squawked, and made his way up the stairs leading to Martin’s attic.

Which was as miserable as Martin had described it. Dust lay heavy on the banister, and grime coated the window at the top of the stairs. The door to Martin’s room was badly in need of a paint job. Douglas shuddered at the Dickensian-ness of it all.

He rapped on the door. “Hallo. Little Nell? Are you in there? Is the decline going on schedule? I’ve just come to see how you’re getting on.” He rapped again.

“Sorry.” Martin’s voice was so strangled and congested as to be barely recognizable. “I’m afraid you have the wrong address, there’s no one here—“ The door opened to reveal a very puzzled Martin. “Douglas?” He seemed as surprised to see Douglas as Douglas was by Martin’s appearance.

Carolyn had been right to worry. Martin’s face was an unhealthy red, while the rest of him was a pasty white. Douglas could fully appreciate this contrast because Martin was wearing his captain’s hat, a pair of boxer briefs with tiny aeroplanes on them, and nothing else. He held his flight bag in his hand.

“Going somewhere?” Douglas asked.

“Of course,” said Martin, with all the dignity a very ill, mostly naked man could muster. “I’m going to work.”

“Might you have perhaps forgotten something?”

Martin made a dismissive face. “No. I have my pilot’s license and my passport, right here, where I always keep them.” He patted the flight bag confidently.

“I was thinking more along the lines of trousers.”

Martin glanced down at himself, and made a tiny noise of astonishment. “I—“ he said. “I can’t think what—It was just so hot—and I must’ve forgotten—Oh, oh, no.” The last bit was more of a moan, and it started him coughing again in wet, crackling, bursts.

Douglas could’ve diagnosed pneumonia at thirty paces, but he supposed they ought to consult an actual doctor, or at least someone who could legally prescribe drugs. 

“Come along,” he said, taking the sagging Martin under one elbow and steering him back into his room. “Let’s get you dressed.”

*

Martin fell asleep on the way back from Douglas’s GP, the prescription for antibiotics clutched in one hand. He woke with a start when the car stopped, and gazed blearily through the windshield.

As far as he could tell, they were in a driveway, not on the semi-industrial road outside of his flat. And there was too much greenery for anywhere in his neighborhood. “Are we—?” he managed. “You haven’t—?”

Douglas opened the passenger side door of the car and stretched out his hand. Martin considered not taking it for a moment—it was embarrassing to have Douglas hauling him around like a sick cat—but he really did need the help.

“Of course I have,” said Douglas, taking a not-insignificant percentage of Martin’s weight as he steered him up the front steps to his house. “I could hardly take you back to that fleapit you call home. The air in there’s bad enough to kill a dozen Camilles, let alone one underweight pilot.”

“But you don’t know anything about taking care of sick people.”

“Martin. Do you remember the time you thought I didn’t know anything about something and it turned out I really didn’t?”

Martin tried to wrap his weary brain around the syntax of that sentence, and failed. “Erm—no?” he ventured.

“Exactly. But I can drive you down to Wokingham, if you prefer. I’m sure your family would be only too glad—“ But this idea only provoked a storm of coughing from Martin. “I thought as much. Now lie down before you fall over.” 

They had advanced into what was clearly the guest bedroom without Martin really noticing. A queen-sized bed made up in fresh sheets and a fluffy duvet stood in front of him. It might have been the most beautiful sight Martin had ever seen. He hoped his grateful collapse into it wasn’t too embarrassing.

*

Whatever drugs Douglas procured from the chemist enabled Martin to sleep through the rest of the day. The room was dark when he awoke, and for a moment he had no idea where he was.

It was only the surprising sight of Douglas entering the room with a heavily laden tray that brought the whole, strange morning back to him.

“Back among the living, are we?” asked Douglas, turning on the lamp by the bedside table.

“I—“ Martin began, pushing himself up against the headboard. But the movement brought on a coughing fit, and he couldn't continue. Painful as the spasm was, however, he noticed two things during the course of it: one, that despite the coughing, he was feeling distinctly better, less addled by fever and exhaustion; and two, that he was wearing crimson silk pyjamas that were not his. _Had Douglas--? How had Douglas—?_ The very idea extended the coughing jag by thirty seconds.

Douglas, meanwhile, was setting out a bowl of something hot, a mug of tea, and more pill bottles onto some kind of lap tray contraption.

“Really,” Martin gasped as soon as he was able. “You don’t need to—I mean, thanks awfully, but I should really—I’m perfectly capable of—“

Douglas handed him a spoon. “Don’t be stupid. What are friends for?”

“Friends? Is that—? I mean, are we—“

“Shut up, Martin.” Douglas rolled his eyes, but his words didn’t seem to hold quite his usual level of contempt. “Drink your soup.”

“It’s just—Oh.” The soup—broth, really—was delicious: rich, without being heavy. “That’s fantastic.”

Douglas smiled smugly. “Yes. Oxtail. You wouldn’t believe what it takes to find oxtail on a Saturday morning in Fitton. But I have my sources.”

The doorbell chimed from the front of the house. 

“Ah. Speaking of friends.”

Douglas disappeared, only to reappear moments later with an Arthur burdened with two flower arrangements and a fruit basket.

“Arthur,” Martin said, a terrible suspicion beginning to dawn on him. “What’s happened to your lips—you looked like you’ve just eaten something really sour.”

“No. It’s just that Mum said that you needed to keep very quiet. So I’m practicing being very quiet.” Arthur spoke in a hoarse and dramatic whisper. “It’s quite difficult really—keeping your mouth shut so much. My lips are beginning to ache.”

“Douglas,” Martin said warningly.

“Calm down, Martin, or you'll relapse. Here’s the situation. We have that night flight to Miami. You’re obviously grounded, so I need to fly the aeroplane. We decided you were too ill to be left alone—“

“We?” Martin could feel his blood pressure rising.

“Well,” Arthur chimed in, voice ascending to its usual register. “My mum got on to your mum.” Martin groaned. “And your mum wanted to come right away, of course, but my mum said she’d only bring on her heart trouble again. And then mum and I and Douglas had a bit of a council on the issue.” Martin groaned again, imagining that conversation. “And we decided that the best thing would be if I spent the night here, with you. Since taking care of invalids is one of my best things. Skip? Douglas, why’s he gone under the covers like that? Is that one of the symptoms of bronchial pneumonia?”

"No," said Douglas."That's just the sight of a man who appreciates his friends."


End file.
